You Can't Win Them All
by The Villain A
Summary: Paul finds himself in the clutches of a madman determined to punish him for his previous actions. Is there anything that can save him?


Paul blinked, slowly adjusting his eyes to the dim surroundings. Where in God's name was he? Had one of the players turned the tables on him? Peter. Where was Peter? His head...Jesus, his head. It felt like someone had dropped a cartoon anvil on his real-life skull. He couldn't turn his neck, which was just as well. He would've passed out from the pain. As Paul slowly came out of the quasi-slumber, he felt new sensations; his mouth was taped, his moans muffled, bound hand and foot to a fucking chair like in the cliched horror movies he hated so. The only illumination came from a dim light bulb in the center of the room. The darkness opened in front of Paul, the creaky door, another cliche, revealing him to be in a room within a room. A basement. The tall figure, clearly male, sauntered into the spotlight like a soprano onstage. He was thin, pale, his arms muscular, wearing a black shirt in contrast to Paul's now-stained white one. His face was smiling, trusting, naive...the kind of guy that usually answered the door. The man reached into the darkness and produced a chair, which he straddled backwards, and rested his chin on his arms, still grinning like a dope.

"Let me guess." Even his voice sounded idiotic, with a trace of a hick accent. "You're asking who I am? It's kind of hard to tell what you're saying." He laughed slightly, then bowed his ahead, shamed. "That wasn't very good, was it? I'm sorry. I can't tell a joke to save my life. Anyway, I'm from the same place as you."

"Mmmm...mmmf!"

"Oh. About your buddy...he didn't make it. It was a terrible thing to see. The last thing he said was your name, Paul. Peter, was it? You called him Tubby? Didn't look fat at all to me. Speaking of names, you can call me Kyle. Wait...you can't. You get what I'm saying, anyway, right?" Kyle smiled in encouragement.

Peter was dead? It couldn't be true...he should have been there for him, comforted him in his last moments. He'd failed his best friend. Tears welled up in Paul's eyes, ran down his cheeks and over the tape.

Kyle burst out in a roaring, violent laugh that filled the chamber and burned Paul's eardrums. He closed his eyes, struggling to block out the harsh sound. "Look at you," Kyle snickered, "A cold-blooded killer mourning his buddy. That's rich!" Kyle leaned over the chair, into Paul's face. "But really," he continued, "You and I are cut from the same cloth; two guys who like to have fun. The difference though, is that I get a kick only out of fucking up people like you and Peter. I don't see duos like you two very often, which is a damn shame, because I get bored."

Kyle rose from his seat, and with a flick of his hand, light seared Paul's pupils. He was in a kind of "workshop". Power tools and instruments lay upon the tables. Kyle reappeared with a hand drill, which made a surprisingly quiet whirring sound when activated. Very slowly and deliberately, Kyle inched the drill towards Paul's jaw. Paul had been moaning before, but now he shouted in panic against the duct tape gag, straining his neck, desperate to get away.

"What's the matter?" Kyle asked kindly, "I thought you liked pain. Ah, I forgot, you're sadistic, not masochistic. Easy to get the two confused. I apologize, but I really can't hear you yelling through that tape. I'll take it off, maybe we can understand each other." Kyle removed the gag at the exact instant the drill went into Paul's chin.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

_"That's _more like it. Clear as a bell!"

The bloody hole dripped, Paul gasping in agony, as Kyle turned off the drill and went back to the table. "Sure would hate to make you lose your voice messing up your jaw like that. Wouldn't be fun for either of us."

"Let me go...you sick fuck..."

"People who live in glass houses really shouldn't throw stones y'know." Kyle now had a pair of scissors, which he snipped together in anticipation.

Paul spewed blood through his open mouth. "What are you gonna do with those, you piece of shit?"

"Two guesses."

"What...oh fuck no. No, God no. Please, please don't. I'm sorry, I don't know who you are, but I'm fucking sorry, I swear to god! Let me go or kill me! I CAN'T TAKE THAT!"

Paul was barely conscious now, and mute. But in spite of all his previous begging and loss of face, he wasn't beaten. There was one thing Kyle hadn't counted on. All that torture had loosened his restraints just enough to reach into his pocket, and get that remote. With the press of a button, it would all be so different. Where was the remote control? Where was the fucking remote control?

"Looking for this?"

As Paul's vision blurred, Kyle came into vision, holding a certain dark object. In a frantic blur that reversed time and space themselves, the two men were back where they began. Paul had the gag over his mouth again, his many wounds miraculously healed, Kyle standing in front of him, with that rotten leer.

"Like I said, Paul, I get bored. Every time I play a game, I have to add something new, or else it just gets stale. Can't do it all in one sitting, especially since the body's so frail. You have the potential for a helluva lot of rounds. Now let's see. What other objects have we got here?"

Paul couldn't move, but he shut his eyes yet again, praying to whatever entity was making this happen, pleading for mercy he didn't deserve.

"_All those times...we were just following the will of the makers...please, whoever's putting me through this, stop...Peter and I are creations...You can't blame us for what we did! It's not fair! Blame them, and leave us alone! I'm begging you!"_

Paul's pleas were indeed heard...but the listener paid no mind.


End file.
